Selected Poems (25 page)

Was not unskilful in the spoiler’s art,

And spread its snares licentious far and wide;

Nor from the base pursuit had turn’d aside,

As long as aught was worthy to pursue:

295

But Harold on such arts no more relied;

And had he doted on those eyes so blue,

Yet never would he join the lover’s whining crew.

XXXIV

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman’s breast,

Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs;

300

What careth she for hearts when once possess’d?

Do proper homage to thine idol’s eyes;

But not too humbly, or she will despise

Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes:

Disguise ev’n tenderness, if thou art wise;

305

Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes;

Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes.

XXXV

‘Tis an old lesson; Time approves it true,

And those who know it best, deplore it most;

When all is won that all desire to woo,

310

The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost:

Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost,

These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these!

If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost,

Still to the last it rankles, a disease,

315

Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please.

XXXVI

Away! nor let me loiter in my song,

For we have many a mountain-path to tread,

And many a varied shore to sail along,

By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led –

320

Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head

Imagined in its little schemes of thought;

Or e’er in new Utopias were ared,

To teach man what he might be, or he ought;

If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught.

XXXVII

325

Dear Nature is the kindest mother still,

Though alway changing, in her aspect mild;

From her bare bosom let me take my fill,

Her never-wean’d, though not her favour’d child.

Oh! she is fairest in her features wild,

330

Where nothing polish’d dares pollute her path:

To me by day or night she ever smiled,

Though I have mark’d her when none other hath,

And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath.

XXXVIII

Land of Albania! where Iskander rose,

335

Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise,

And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes

Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize:

Land of Albania!1 let me bend mine eyes

On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men!

340

The cross descends, thy minarets arise,

And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen,

Through many a cypress grove within each city’s ken.

XXXIX

Childe Harold sail’d, and pass’d the barren spot,

Where sad Penelope o’erlook’d the wave;2

345

And onward view’d the mount, not yet forgot,

The lover’s refuge, and the Lesbian’s grave.

Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save

That breast imbued with such immortal fire?

Could she not live who life eternal gave?

350

If life eternal may await the lyre,

That only heaven to which Earth’s children may aspire.

XL

‘Twas on a Grecian autumn’s gentle eve

Childe Harold hail’d Leucadia’s cape afar;
¹

A spot he longed to see, nor cared to leave:

355

Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish’d war,

Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar;2

Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight

(Born beneath some remote inglorious star)

In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight,

360

But loathed the bravo’s trade, and laughed at martial wight.

XLI

But when he saw the evening star above

Leucadia’s far-projecting rock of woe,

And hail’d the last resort of fruitless love,

He felt, or deem’d he felt, no common glow:

365

And as the stately vessel glided slow

Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount,

He watch’d the billows’ melancholy flow,

And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont,

More placid seem’d his eye, and smooth his pallid front.

XLII

370

Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania’s hills,

Dark Suli’s rocks, and Pindus’ inland peak,

Robed half in mist, bedew’d with snowy rills,

Array’d in many a dun and purple streak,

Arise; and, as the clouds along them break,

375

Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer:

Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak,

Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear,

And gathering storms around convulse the closing year.

XLIII

Now Harold felt himself at length alone,

380

And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu;

Now he adventured on a shore unknown,

Which all admire, but many dread to view:

His breast was arm’d ’gainst fate, his wants were few;

Peril he sought not, but ne’er shrank to meet:

385

The scene was savage, but the scene was new;

This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet,

Beat back keen winter’s blast, and welcomed summer’s heat.

XLIV

Here the red cross, for still the cross is here,

Though sadly scoff’d at by the circumcised,

390

Forgets that pride to pamper’d priesthood dear;

Churchman and votary alike despised.

Foul Superstition! howsoe’er disguised,

Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross,

For whatsoever symbol thou art prized,

395

Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss!

Who from true worship’s gold can separate thy dross?

XLV

Ambracia’s gulf behold, where once was lost

A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing!

In yonder rippling bay, their naval host

400

Did many a Roman chief and Asian king1

To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring:

Look where the second Caesar’s trophies rose:
¹

Now, like the hands that rear’d them, withering:

Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes!

405

G
OD
! was thy globe ordain’d for such to win and lose?

XLVI

From the dark barriers of that rugged clime,

Ev’n to the centre of Illyria’s vales,

Childe Harold pass’d o’er many a mount sublime,

Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales;

410

Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales

Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast

A charm they know not; loved Parnassus fails,

Though classic ground and consecrated most,

To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast.

XLVII

415

He pass’d bleak Pindus, Acherusia’s lake,
²

And left the primal city of the land,

And onwards did his further journey take

To greet Albania’s chief,
³
whose dread command

Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand

420

He sways a nation, turbulent and bold:

Yet here and there some daring mountain-band

Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold

Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold.
⁴

XLVIII

Monastic Zitza!1 from thy shady brow,

425

Thou small, but favour’d spot of holy ground!

Where’er we gaze, around, above, below,

What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found!

Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound,

And bluest skies that harmonise the whole:

430

Beneath, the distant torrent’s rushing sound

Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll

Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul.

XLIX

Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill,

Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh

435

Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still,